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'Tea!'
The word was uttered with contempt. 'I'm not well enough...'

Emma was shaking. She felt that Adam was showing a certain cavalier attitude no matter what the circumstances. His words, 'And you don't want Emma to take it', stung, and she wanted to attack him. The sight of Irene tore at her, her pathetic dependence killing all thought of self.

She said soothingly, 'Have a little sleep. Then we'll have tea.'

Irene gave Emma a confiding and more composed look.

'I'll do anything
you
say.' She manoeuvred herself under the duvet and curled up like a child.

'She's exhausted,' Emma said aggressively.

'I'll talk downstairs,' Adam said masterfully.

They left the room. Irene didn't open her eyes.

Downstairs, Marion left them alone in the sitting-room and Emma turned on Adam fiercely.

'I hope this has convinced you,' she cried. 'If I ever had any doubts about working again. . . I hope even you realise, when even the possibility of my taking another case can induce such panic.'

Adam stood there stonily confident.

'My views and diagnosis have only been strengthened
by
this incident.' He added harshly, 'While you behave as you do '

Emma lost control in that moment; he stood there, masterful, challenging and immovable. Love and hate were inextricably mixed as he held her gaze, making her heart race and the physical awareness of him awaken a desire so strong that she ached to have his arms around her; for there to be peace between them.

She cried, her voice hoarse and passionate, 'You don't understand; Irene is a trust. I can't condemn her to this misery, just to make my own life easier.'

Adam was torn, longing to be able to utter words that would bring agreement and harmony. But he could not go against his professional principles and condone that which he felt to be fatal in the long term, both to her and his patient.

He made a little helpless gesture. 'And you think I don't realise that?'

She dared not respond to the note of appeal in his voice; she was too conscious of his nearness and overpowering attractiveness.

'I think you are blind to everything but your own diagnosis. Your attitude to Irene is hostile; you distress her '

'Because she fears me,' he said quietly. 'She's afraid to meet me halfway—afraid of life.'

Emma rapped out, 'Life! What life has she? A prisoner within four walls, shut off from the world.'

Adam felt emotion stir to a point where he could no longer be either professional or discreet.

'And, as I've said before, what life have
you
? You are just as much a prisoner as she. Have you thought of the future? Love?' The word came unexpectedly.

She started, her heart racing. She echoed the syllable as though it burned her. 'Where does that come in?' she demanded.

'Exactly,' he said challengingly. 'You'd sacrifice even marriage, children. . . Or are you so removed from the world that you don't need emotion and all that goes with it?' he finished passionately.

Emma thought of the mood which had prompted her to take Grace's case, and it stirred her to a point where she was doubly defensive.

'I need peace of mind,' she protested. 'You rob me of it every time I see you.' The words came protestingly. She knew she must sustain an anger which would protect her from the weakness her love for him created.

'If I'd had your support,' he persisted, 'we could have worked out a plan '

She interrupted him with a fierce protest. 'Plan! What plan can you make for someone in Irene's condition? You bandage wounds, not tear them open,' she added hotly.

'And it is sometimes necessary to let the air get to them,' he countered. 'But you refuse to see that.'

'I face up to reality. There is no fresh air for an agoraphobic. Only distress at the very thought of it.'

He said sternly, 'This is not just agoraphobia. For God's sake! Can't you
see?'

'I can see that you always make things worse,' Emma said fiercely.

He held her gaze masterfully. 'Because I won't aid and abet any case merely with sedatives.' His voice hardened. 'I assure you I came here with great reluctance, but there was no one else and Marion was very distressed.'

Emma was beyond the point of reason. She was fighting the world, her own intolerable position, her love for him, as she said, 'Then I suggest that should there ever be a recurrence of this situation, you get a colleague to stand in for you.' She caught at her breath, emotion almost choking her. 'I don't want you to see Irene again,'

Adam felt a wave of depression surge over him to add to his increasing anger.

'Why not be honest, Emma?' he rapped out, his love for her a mixture of fury and desire, so that he hardly knew what he was saying. 'Why not admit that
you
don't want to see me again? You've no need to make Irene the excuse.'

Her heart felt like lead. Fear mingled with frustration because she could not discuss anything with him calmly. She said, her voice breaking, yet strong in its significance, 'Excuse! I don't need an excuse.' She was lost to reason in that moment as she added, 'But you are quite right; I much prefer not to see you again. We have nothing more to say to each other, and don't live in the same world.'

Adam heard the words like a death knell, but his fury and frustration were so great that he made no protest, merely said icily, 'You have my word that it would only be by accident!' Passion, desire, an overwhelming urge to take her in his arms forced the last bitter words from his lips. 'As I told you at the Hayes' house, you left me in no doubt of your feelings when you took that case.' And with those words he walked out of the house.

Irene studied Emma with a troubled expression in her eyes, then said in a breath, 'You look sad—I heard you sighing. Is anything wrong?'

Emma had felt sad. Her parting from Adam the previous week had been a desperate loss which the passing of time magnified. His words haunted her. His mention of the future and love had been rather like a mirror holding up a bleak scene. She realised how he had become a part of her life, their differences part of the pattern, and his dismissal of her because she had taken Grace's case a blow which had built up a sickening depression; but, even then, there was always the hope that she might see him again. This situation was final and hope had died, the suffering worse because she had uttered the challenge which was instrumental in their parting.

She forced a smile. 'What could be wrong?'

'Your relationship with Adam.' The words were solemn.

Emma said a little sharply, 'I haven't a relationship, as you call it, with Adam. You've gone over all this before.'

Irene was apprehensive, but refused to remain silent as she challenged, 'Are you in love with him?' She studied Emma intently and waited tensely for her answer.

Emma got to her feet, wanting to escape from Irene's questioning and afraid of giving herself away.

'It will only be accident if I ever see him again,' she said almost sharply.

'You're always on edge and snappy with him,' Irene persisted.

'Hardly eloquent of love,' Emma countered, adding swiftly, 'I'm going into the town—is there anything you want?' She tried to sound casual, but saw the element of fear instantly creep into Irene's eyes.

'Will you be long?'

'Depends on how crowded the shops are.' Emma was brief, depression seeping into her like a heavy mist. In that moment she felt trapped.

Irene's voice was low. 'Are you cross with me because I mentioned Adam?' It was a rather pathetic plea and Emma only partially responded to it as she said firmly, 'No, but I shall be if you mention his name again.' She looked at Irene steadily. 'You've got rid of him as your doctor; let that be enough.'

Irene looked solemn.

'It wasn't all on my side.' There was a defensive note in her voice.

Emma made no comment. She slipped into the jacket of her trouser suit in which she looked very smart, the black and white combination enhancing her fairness.

Irene hovered, watching as Emma picked up her handbag and car keys. The room seemed empty and Irene felt panic-stricken.

Emma quickened her pace, kissed Irene swiftly and said lightly, 'I'll not be long.'

Irene moved to the large French windows and watched her go, suppressing the overwhelming desire to persuade her to go tomorrow; but tomorrow, she thought, as she saw Emma drive away and wave, would be just like today.

An hour passed. Irene told herself that Emma would be back in half an hour. She was seldom away much longer. She watched cars, hating them; the next one would be Emma's. . . Her head began to feel that it was swelling as though she had blown her nose too hard and her ears hadn't popped. Suppose Emma had an accident? What would she do without her? She relied on her for everything, dominated her life. Wild, distressing and disturbing thoughts raced unbidden through her tortured brain. Emma was a prisoner too. 'Dear God,' she prayed aloud, 'bring her back. . .' A car. . . No, not hers. . . And as she sat, shaking, at the window, she heard the shriek of brakes and a metallic crash.

'Emma!' she cried. And again, '
Emma!'

The next thing she knew, she had rushed to the front door and run out into the street, calling Emma's name as she surveyed the two cars in collision and a child lying in the road, almost at her feet.

As
Irene
stooped and gathered the shrieking three-year-old girl in her arms, she was conscious of her heart thudding and a strange unreal sensation overwhelming her. She took in the scene, thankful that Emma was not involved. Obviously the two cars had collided as the one in front had braked to miss the child. Panic gripped her for a second as the two drivers rushed to her side.

'She ran out. . . God knows how I didn't hit her!' one of them cried.

'Judy! Judy!' An almost hysterical voice came from the mother tearing from a house to their right. She added desperately, 'I told you to stay in the garden.'

Judy, unharmed, had stopped crying, realising that she was the centre of attraction.

'I fell over, trying to get my ball,' she said as though it were an achievement. She wriggled from Irene's arms and went to her mother, who held her as if in a vice. Then she buried her head on her mother's shoulder and added, 'I was frightened. . .I didn't see ' she jerked her head up and stared at the man who could so easily have killed her '—I didn't see you. Who are you?'

Irene looked up at the man beside her. 'You've hurt your head!' she cried, noticing an ugly cut above the eye which was bloodstained.

'It's nothing. . . I'm Timothy Wain,' he said, looking at the mother and then back to Irene and the other driver.

The latter volunteered, 'I'm Philip Morgan.'

But Irene's attention was drawn to Timothy Wain. An absurd thought shot through her mind: he had kind eyes and was an attractive man. . . Where was Emma? She ought to have been back by now.

And just then, when the little group appeared to be in disarray, Emma drove up, taking in the scene cursorily and parking swiftly ahead. When she got out of her car, she saw Irene and gave a little gasp. Irene
out
talking to strangers, even holding the little girl's hand! She went purposefully forward. She knew Judy's mother, Mrs Loxley, as a neighbour with whom she passed the time of day, and she greeted her anxiously. She looked at Irene, who said in a quick, staccato voice, 'I heard the crash and thought it was you.'

Emma was too stunned by the transformation to speak, and when she did it was to assess the situation and take control.

'Go indoors,' she said to Mrs Loxley, 'and have a cup of sweet tea.'

'Can I have a chocolate?' Judy piped up.

'Naughty girls don't have chocolates.' The voice shook as the mother swayed between the horror of what might have been, and the anger that rose because Judy had left the garden when always told never to do so. Like someone in a trance, Mrs Loxley went into the house with Judy.

Emma said to Timothy Wain, 'I'm a nurse; you'd better come with us and I'll dress that wound.' She turned to Philip Morgan, 'You too. You both look shaken.' But even as she spoke, it all seemed unreal. She was standing out in the road with
Irene,
talking to two strange men and suggesting they came to the house! Irene didn't demur.

Philip Morgan studied the cars.

'Only superficial wing and bumper damage. We'd better park them near the kerb.' Particulars would have to be exchanged and Emma's offer seemed propitious.

Emma felt that she had suddenly been transferred to the stage and was acting in a drama, as they went into the house. She watched Irene furtively, but she seemed quite at ease as she said, 'I'll get some tea.' Her voice was calm and she might have been in charge as she indicated the cloakroom. She was aware of Timothy Wain and liked the look of him. He was the type of man she used to like. The thought streaked through her mind that she had been devoid of all personal contact with men since her parents' death, and she felt a trifle self-conscious to be studying one now, and feeling a hint of emotion stirring within her. The world had suddenly become a different place. Even the house took to itself a new personality.

Emma bathed and dressed the wound, and the four of them talked together over tea. To Emma's amazement, Irene took part in the conversation, asking personal questions, by no means resented. Philip Morgan telephoned his wife to say he would be a little late. Timothy Wain spoke to his housekeeper who, he volunteered, was his old nanny. Both men were 'in computers' and knew the same firms. Irene had a strange feeling of satisfaction when discovering that Timothy Wain was not married, although she would not have given credence to the fact.

'It has been a pleasant ending to a grim afternoon,' he said when on the point of leaving. 'I wonder if you would both come and have dinner with me one evening, to celebrate the fact that I've had the ministrations of an expert nurse and that a child was unharmed?'